Three Hours Left

You felt it when you layed next to her on a cold concrete basketball court for over an hour when you first met her. You felt it when you both sang the same lyrics to a song you'd never shared with anyone while she was driving your car a little too fast, but for some reason you didn't care. You felt it when you were sitting too far away from her on the couch watching a bad romantic comedy, all the while wanting the distance between the two of you to be measured in millimeters, not feet. You felt it when you told her that you wanted to kiss her and then stared at her, watching her fall asleep, never gathering up the courage to actually do it. You felt it when you fell asleep next to her, first on the couch and then, after her father came home, on her bed.

You could feel it in the ethereal; there was a charge in the atmosphere, a faint smell, and a flash in your peripheral vision. And of course you could feel it in the physical, in your stomach, in your chest, in your legs, in your erection, in the back of your mind, and on the tip of your tongue. It was everywhere: the glow of the TV, her bottom lip, your stupid hat, the storm clouds, the pain in your back, the wood-paneled walls, the drunks outside, her feet, her eyes, her breath, and every move she made. You were being overwhelmed by it, about to drown.

And then suddenly it was all gone, and you were walking the several blocks home shivering from the cold May Sunday morning breeze. Six hours had never seemed so long. You found yourself thinking irrational things such as hoping McDonald's would burn down, so that she wouldn't have to work and could come home to find you waiting for her on the bench next to her door. That's when you realized that it was still there.

You didn't know what the hell it was, where it came from, why it was there, and why it wouldn't leave. But you liked it. And it made you smile.